


tangerine and roseate

by postfixrevolution



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fire Emblem, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Crushes, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Referenced/Implied Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love, ambiguous relationships are they matesprits are they moirails we just don't know, first meets, palest of cute pale friends, up to your hoosegow in AUs, whoops I lied about the sadstuck there is actually a fair amount, you probably won't see much sadstuck from me ahaha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:13:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 19,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And together, we'll paint the dark skies with a new sunrise.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>{ dirkroxy drabble collection :: complete }</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. just as dead, just as real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's just as _here_ as you are— just as dead, and just as real.

He's Dirk. 

Of course he is. You'd recognize the head of sandy blonde hair anywhere, dark pointed shades attached at the nose and always walking around with that hands-in-pockets brand of aloofness. You run toward him, paying no heed to the countless bodies of similarly fated others that you shove past as you run, catching the boy by the torso in the grandest sneak attack hug to ever not-exactly exist.

distri you mutter against the soft material of his shirt. hopy shit youre actually here! You missed him so damn much, wandering around in this half existence for who knows how long. He stirs, removing your hands from around his waist, hands warm around your wrists as he turns around to face you.

When you look up at him, you can see the ring of crimson red wrapped around his neck, similar to the very own wounds that stab through your torso, and you almost falter. No, but it's Dirk, you remind yourself. He's Dirk and he's just as _here_ as you are— just as dead, and just as real. You grin up at him as brightly as you can.

its been a p long while eh? you ask him softly. He looks at you past those ridiculously pointed shades of his, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, nonchalantly crossing your arms over the gaping wound you are forced to wear in your torso. thought id never find u in this cray shitstorm of a place

He shoves his hands back in his pockets, opening his mouth to speak, but closing it again. Your grin fades for a second, but you turn it back on once he speaks, voice slow and deep and comfortingly familiar.

Could've said the same to you, Rolal. You've proven to be one slippery motherfucker, even in death. Least you're here now; the afterlife probably would've sucked shit without a party gal like you by my side.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, running a hand through your curly bangs. Your cheeks almost ache from how widely you're grinning, but you find you don't care. You launch yourself at your best friend once again, burying your face into the fabric of his shoulder, shakily and giddily and softly and elated. He wraps his arms around you, patting your back gently.

Nice to know I've been missed. he comments casually, and you almost roll your eyes.

course i missed u, you big fuckin' dork

You tilt your head up enough to barely catch the small smile pulling up at his lips.

Yeah, I know. I missed you, too.  



	2. fucking glorious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's going to be written on your actual damn gravestone, you think ruefully.

She's going to be the death of you, with her brilliant smile and her even more brilliant eyes. Her with her sharp wit and even sharper tongue. Her chiming laugh and the way she both understands your rambling jokes and thinks they're _actually funny._ The way, when you're carrying her up to her bedroom whenever you sleep over, she's warm— warmer than you— and smells intoxicatingly like strawberry shampoo and sweet wine. 

There's a violent snap and your knuckles burn like hell. You look up to see Professor Scratch glaring down at you, lips set into a harsh scowl and fingers impatiently twisting a wooden ruler between bony digits. 

"Care to tell us what exactly is so interesting about the back of Miss Lalonde's head?" he asks in an eerily slow tone. Your best friend looks at you, bright eyes shining with concern and black-painted lips set into a soft frown. 

Shit, you had zoned out. 

"Well, Mister Strider?" 

You tears your eyes away from those of Roxy Lalonde's and put them, once again, on your teacher. "It's not so much what's so interesting about Roxy's head than what's so _not_ interesting about your class," you reply automatically, and the History teacher glares at you. 

"Detention, Mister Strider. I shall see you after class." 

He returns to the front of the classroom, and with him, the eyes of all the other students in the classroom. Jane shoots you an worried look from the front of the room, Jake, an unsure shrug and unsure smile, and Roxy, an apologetic smile and a mouthed, _good luck, distri_. They turn back to the front of the class and you run a hand through your hair, sighing softly. 

It's going to be written on your actual damn gravestone, you think ruefully. 

_"Stared to death by the goddamn prettiest pink eyes he'd ever known. It was fucking glorious."_


	3. taller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That day, two children stood side by side on that platform and gazed upon the vast lands with wide-eyed wonder, feeling taller than they had ever felt before.

Dirk places another hand onto the bar above him, pulling himself up higher, legs scrambling for grip on the jungle gym. He was almost there, at the highest tippy top of the tall metal structure, and he could feel the cool winds tugging at his sandy blond hair. 

The sky above was clouded and not a ray of sun peeped out, but the six year old boy had to reach the top, to stand above the large playground and see its structures and features standing out, an easy comparison between the flat, boring backyard of the modest place he called his home. With a small grunt, he pulled himself up higher, paying no heed to the threat of rain looming above him. 

Slowly and carefully, he moved his foot up another step, the reach a bit much for his short legs. His toes rest on the metal bar as he tried to pull himself up, but the amount of contact between his shoes and the bar was evidently not enough, and his foot slid off, slowly at first, then all at once, dropping the boy down and testing his grip on the metal bars above him. He exclaimed in pain as his entire weight pulled on his arms, cold bars pressing against his skin and making him shiver through his clothes. 

With short and panicked breaths, heart beating erratically in his chest, Dirk fumbled for his footing on the jungle gym. In the background, he half-registered a rapid series of dull thud-thud-thuds and a clink-clank, and a hand pressed carefully against the bottom of his foot, leading it back to solid salvation. His hyperventilations slowly turned back into calm, deep breaths, and soon, a girl appeared to his side. 

She looked about his age, short platinum hair, bright roseate eyes and an even brighter grin, stretching across her face with the brilliance of a thousand stars. Arcturus had nothing against her bewitching gleam. She was giggling softly, one hand on the bars and the other covering her mouth as her shoulders shook gently. 

"That was a close one," she quipped lightly, voice tinged with a New Jersey accent, as she propelled herself forward with an unfair grace, sitting on the thin bar with easy balance. With a breathy laugh, she fell backwards, swooping in between the bars and hanging upside down by her knees, hair draping across her face. "You okay?" 

Dirk nodded, watching in awe as she swung up and regained her grip on the bars and pulled herself back up to sit beside him. 

"Cool! I'm Roxy Lalonde, by the way. How 'bout you, glasses boy?" 

"It's not glasses boy," he said with a slight frown. 

"Oh yea?" 

"Yeah. It's Dirk Strider." 

"Well, it's nice ta meet ya, Dirk," she replied cheerily, grim never fading. She hopped up a few more feet, scaling the bars with ease, before looking down toward him with an outstretched hand and an innocent, "You comin' or what?" 

In lieu of answering, Dirk simply pushed himself up, higher and higher, and slowly and steadily he caught up with the blonde. She seemed to have noticed his inexperience, and slowed down from then on, staying by the boy's side until the two of them reached the top. 

Atop the highest point of the tall, metal jungle gym existed a small platform that overlooked the entire playground. That day, two children stood side by side on that platform and gazed upon the vast lands with wide-eyed wonder, feeling taller than they had ever felt before. 

And even to this day, at some odd 3 'o' clock in the morning, two friends of eleven, long years will be sitting atop the rusted jungle gym, back to back as they gazed down at the small playground they used to call their own and up at the stars in the sky that they thought as theirs. 


	4. empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in the end, so are you.

Your least favourite word is empty, which is ironic because that is practically all your life is. 

The world around your apartment cell is empty as fuck. The waters around you never stir because they're empty, too. Your chest is empty, although you're fairly certain there's supposed to be a heart in there somewhere. You can't be sure because haven't found it yet. 

You feel like one of the metal carcasses that you build and wire all day and all night. Hollow. Empty. Except you have scratched and scarred skin that is human and flawed, unlike the metal. You stare at the crimson red blood that drips down your fingertips whenever you accidentally slice yourself on the sharp edges of another robot, and you remember that you aren't really made of metal. It makes you feel a little less lifeless. A little less hollow. But you're still empty. 

Roxy... 

Roxy is like a new code that somehow made her way into your system. Yeah, that's a good description, you decide. She's a code made of flesh and bone and she's all too human for your hollow, robotic shell. She makes you feel warm and less empty because when you think of her, something inside of you heats up, stirs to life, and twitches up the corners of your lips. 

You feel a little less empty because the way her presense reminds you that at least your whole world ain't empty... It's like a spark of excitement in your otherwise dull exsistence. Her pink text is as bright as your day is once she talks to you. 

But then, her pink text is still just text and a reminder that she's so far away. She's not close enough to make your home any less empty and not yours enough to make _you_ less empty. The miles in between you stretch out shorter than the nothingness that they caused in your life, and the former never shrinks while the latter only grows more each day. 

You can stare at your screen, at the bright, excited pink text all you want, but those pixels cannot fill anything but a computer screen. 

In the end, your world is still empty. 

And in the end, so are you. 


	5. one for all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But this one time kind of, _really_ hurt.

You never found taking one for the team so painful before. Of course, taking one for the team always entails some form of discomfort, but this one time kind of, _really_ hurt. 

It made your chest all achey and suddenly your vodka tasted like shit. It really blows. You push on and keep drinking though, because you know the alcohol will drown out that pain. It'll drown out the bitterness, and for a blissful few hours you can forget and laugh like it isn't a thing that hurts you so much. 

(It still hurts though. It's just easier to laugh about it when your mind isn't straight.) 

You can talk with him and your heart will only ache until you're forced to curl up on your bed, phone clutched tightly in hand. It's definitely an improvement to the searing mess of emotions you are when sober. It's better than screaming and kicking things and blasting every goddamn, unburdened seagull out of the sky with your gun. 

(You weep and hold a funeral for them later, when you're calmer.) 

Sometimes you'll drunkenly slip up again and say something to him. He brushes it off as if it's nothing and you may be drunk but _fuck_ does it hurt. If you weren't so good at faking a grin for the sake of your friends' feelings over your own, you might have cried. But you are the best at shoving your own shit aside because you love your friends more than anything in the world and not a tear was shed. 

You're familiar with being the one in one for all and you're definitely familiar with pain. You're used to both, hand in hand or not. Sleepless, drunken nights and regret-filled, hungover mornings are customary. 

You hate how much you're familiar with shit like this. 

And yet, you take another one and another and wink at him cheerily when he's able to get a kiss out of his lover that _isn't_ you. 

Your name is Roxy Lalonde and you're used to taking one for the team. 

But it doesn't mean the pain gets any duller each time. 


	6. lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in the end, so do you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to [_empty_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/985887/chapters/2009816), chapter 3.

It gets lonely, you know? 

Lonely with your only friend being a cheap bottle of Merlot wine. Lonely when the only living being that will talk to you is a cat that can only respond in mews and purrs. Lonely when you gaze up at the night sky and know that you're the only one that's doing so. 

It's a loneliness that doesn't die. It doesn't go away. At some point during your insignificant life, it had attached itself to you, somewhere in your chest where you're sure a heart should be. But you don't feel it beating. You just feel a dull emptiness gnawing away at you more and more everyday. 

Dirk... 

Dirk is like your drop of water. 

Yes, you think. That is the perfect description. He dropped into your life and into that void in your chest like a quick drop of water and you didn't notice his presence until he was already fully situated there. He put himself into that void where you knew a beating heart should be and you felt a little less lonely. 

His just _being_ reminds you that there's one more other to match your own singular number, and you can't be alone when there's two. He's that second puzzle piece that fits with you perfectly, and fuck it there's nine hundred ninety-eight more pieces missing, because you still aren't completely alone. His orange text is as vivid as the same sunsets that you'd text each other about every dusk. 

You could stare up at the sky, at the countless number of stars, and wonder if he was doing the same thing, counting the bright orbs of fire that were billions and billions of miles away. 

Sometimes, you'd stare and wonder for too long. The staring led to the wondering, and the wondering made you think of him. It made you think of his bright orange text that was all you've ever seen of him because he's not really _here_ beside you. 

He's alone and you're alone, but for some fucked up reason in this fucked up world, you can't be alone, together. It'll feel like he's beside you as you text each other about the same night sky, but you can't see anyone beside you and you can't feel the reassuring warmth that can only come from another human being because, when it comes down to it, you're still all by yourself. 

In the end, your house still stands lonely. 

And in the end, so do you. 


	7. sunset eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a girl that would always tell him how his eyes shone.

Eyes were meant to be a door way to the soul, but his were more of a looking glass into the mind and the copious amount of endless thoughts flying about it. His bright eyes shone with a voracious curiosity that refused to be quenched and a twisted vulnerability that was so impossibly fragile from many years of tenaciously over-living its stay. They shone too brightly for the lamentation that plagued every waking minute of his life, for the onerous burdens that couldn’t and wouldn’t be lightened. 

There was a girl that would always tell him how his eyes shone – both brilliantly and honestly. She was his same age and they had known each other for longer than they had bothered to remember. For all the two cared, they had known each other forever. 

He’d never know what to say when she went on about his eyes, about how they were like the stars – or how she’d imagine them if the night skies were ever clear enough for her to catch a glimpse of more than a handful of them. She’d say they were brighter than the sun and more beautiful than the sunset she was often awake to witness every morning, and he thought the same about her with her star shine smile and sunset eyes. 

She said that seeing his eyes lose that spark made her feel sad, like her world got so much darker, and he knew exactly when she was thinking of. He would see the same things that she saw in her own mind and before he could dwell too much on all the tragedies, deaths, and hardships that dimmed his eyes, she would nudge him lightly, give him a tentative smile and a quiet, “Hey. You’re okay.” 

He would nod silently and her smile would grow into a grin that the boy would never admit was brighter than the sun itself, and she’d lay a warm hand on top of his own cold digits. He would tilt his head slightly to the side, sending her a look— curious and pleasantly surprised— and half a smile, but she would be too busy gazing serenely out at the sunset to look at the eyes that she so much adored. 

He remembered her saying how it was a shame that he always kept those eyes hidden. 


	8. the start of another day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He grimaces, the words coming out before he could stop them. Dirk stares at them for a moment, but with a sleep-deprived, suddenly embittered resolve, he pounds onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Sburb AU

  
He wakes up at 5 am. Or rather, he doesn't sleep at all, despite getting to bed four hours previously, and opens his tired eyes back up to stare at the dark ceiling at a few hours until the start of another day.

Dirk sighs, foldings his arms behind his head and tracing imaginary shapes in the black span of the empty canvas above him. Looping lines turn into ferocious waves and running horses, speeding cars and sudden stops. With a groan, he sits up, rubbing at his eyes with his palm. Dirk grabs his laptop off his night stand, sitting with his legs folded and back leaning against the headboard as he boots the screen up. 

The sudden light is blinding, and he blindly grasps for his shades, shoving them on before opening his eyes once again. Blinking furiously to rid the after-glare of the screen, he waits, fingers thrumming rhythmically against his kneecaps, as the laptop hums to life and fills the empty room with its low buzz. 

The first hour is spent lazily browsing his music library, the homemade electro-bass and techno-dance beats spilling quietly from his earbuds. He finishes perusing through his old beats and switches to his not-so-homemade playlist; moderate alternative rock, bass heavy techno, and ironic country music all blur together and soon enough, he's tearing the earbuds out of his ears and balling them up. They're strewn haphazardly on his nightstand and he groans again, running a hand through his messy hair. 

A quick glance at the time display and the light beginning to glow behind his fabric curtains signals sunrise— 6:27 in the morning. Dirk opens up Pesterchum, something he'd avoided doing earlier, only to have the curiosity of wondering if anyone was awake yet break his streak. 

As expected, all three handles are a dull, inactive grey, the last name catching the blond's attention first. He mouses over her handle, the bright roseate text a gross grey, frowning at the perpetual offline status bubble. Normally, she'd have her phone or something else to message from; now is not one of those times. Sleep still evades tired tangerine eyes, and Dirk spares a glance at the time display on the corner of his screen, the thin white numbers detailing the date staring up at him blinklessly. He tears his eyes away and opens up a chat window with an inactive handle. 

TT: Damn it, Rolal; I know Pesterchum says you're offline, but fuck if I'm going to let an insentient computer program dictate when I choose to contact others. 

As expected, she doesn't reply. He sighs, running a hand through his hair and leaning back against his headboard. Tangerine eyes flit absently about the lowly illuminated room— cluttered desk, shitty anime posters, broken robots, old schematics, and a singular calendar with one date crossed out in bold, bold red. He drags his gaze back to the laptop after that. 

TT: I have a feeling that you might have the same thing scrawled all over your obnoxious wizard calendar as I have on my own, even if I really wished you didn't.   
TT: Hell, I know for a fact that you have that shit scribbled all over your calendar like the nonsensical scrawlings of a sugar-high five year old over the innocent surface of his older sibling's trigonometry homework.  
TT: That poor tree; cut down and shredded to a pulp, only to be turned into a slate for shitty, crooked lines to make their home. Rest his soul, I say, especially with the things we write on them.  
TT: To be honest, I don't even know why I write this shit down. Who the fuck would want to remember the day their brother died?

He grimaces, the words coming out before he could stop them. Dirk stares at them for a moment, but with a sleep-deprived, suddenly embittered resolve, he pounds onward. 

TT: Be all like, "Aw hell yeah, I gotta do this shit. Got to record the day I lost my only goddamn living family member to a drunk jackass behind a wheel. We are making this happen."  
TT: "Why," you may ask? Well fuck if I know. Guess I'm just going to spend the whole damn day staring at my stupid calendar and hating the world for the shitty hand of cards it dealt me.  
TT: If this were poker, I'd be broker than a high school drop out, freshly laid off from his 10 year janitorial job in the hole in the wall burger joint at Cheap Street and Unemployed Avenue.  
TT: I mean- God damn, Ro.  
TT: We're so fucked up.

Something wet, something searingly hot, rolls down his cheeks, dropping on numb fingers and stopping them cold. He pauses, thr sound of his shallow breathing all there is for a moment, when they suddenly creak back to life. 

TT: Two kids trying to live by themselves, using up whatever shit our guardians left us...   
TT: You're probably wasted off your goddamn ass right now, throwin' darts at your calendar or crying over your copy of Complacency again, with vodka spilled all over your kitchen counter.  
TT: Should have hid your calendar before this all happened. Who knows, maybe it might work.  
TT: We don't need shit like that, anyway. We are strong, independent teens who don't need no fucking papers to tell us what the date is, especially shitty anniversaries like these.  
TT: Jesus, I'm probably going to have to come over and help you clean your wasted ass up soon, now that I think of it.  
TT: You better consider yourself the luckiest little shit on this planet to have me.  
TT: How worth it can it really be to wake up feeling like utter shit, Rox, just to lose yourself and forget about one day?  
TT: You know what- forget I asked. I don't want to know.  
TT: Alright, I'm setting my alarm now. If I don't see any tragic news stories about a girl drinking herself silly and being rushed to the hospital, or likewise catch some news reporter avidly regaling the situation as a crazy blonde chick runs around neighborhoods, stealin' all the cats, then I'll be over.  
TT: Unless you sign on soon.  
TT: That might put a little damper on my heroic escapades...

His fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure of what to type next. With a sigh, the previous energy drains from his cold fingers, and he leans back against the headboard once again. 

With one finger, he jumps across the keyboard, typing slowly and methodically. 

TT: Jesus fuck, Lalonde.  
TT: Where are you?  



	9. thoroughly lifeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's really hard to give a shit right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Sburb AU

It's Saturday, and you're sprawled across your too-pink bed, breaths slow and heavy and body feeling thoroughly lifeless. Your phone lays cast to the ground in some corner of your room, Pesterchum long since deactivated so you couldn't see the sympathetic cyans, fretful forests, and tenacious tangerines. You have a feeling it might've been too quiet if not for the horrible pounding in your head. 

No soft pinging of cellphones add to the cacophony, which you're not sure if you're thankful for or not. You assume the former because who the hell would want drunken, bitter company like you? Hell, you wouldn't even want yourself as company, much less anyone else right now. 

You skipped all your classes this week, calling out sick, sick, sick as could be— which you practically were. Sick of this, sick of that, just sick of everything from yourself to the goddamned wizard calendar that smiled down at you from your poster-ridden wall with one date ruthlessly crossed out in red. 

Sighing deeply, you close your eyes, listening to the shitty thrumming of the half-rate dubstep in your head; Dirk could've mixed better. 

Your hands blindly grasp for one of the darts that lie on your side table, fumbling fingers finally finding cold metal at last. With one eye half-open and only a sparing portion of a fleeting thought, you lob the dart at your calendar. It's throw far away from your target, clipping the corner of an old photo— a small, messy haired blonde girl and a tall and slender woman with shorter, neater hair of the exact same color. 

With a large, animalistic groan of frustration, you slam your eyes shut, raking your hands tiredly down your face. It takes a fair amount of effort, but you manage to slide off your bed and to the ground, the idea of throwing up being forcefully swallowed back on multiple occasions. You drag yourself across the ground, not giving a shit about the dust on the cold, wooden floors. When you reach your phone, you hold it above your head, back flat on the ground. 

You're not sure possesses you to do so, but you turn the device on, opening up a chat client you haven't touched all week and immediately clicking on the glowing orange handle. 

TG: its 2day and i fuckin h8 it

You sigh heavily, letting your arms drop down onto your chest at that. After a beat, you lift the device back up, only to hastily sign out and forcefully throw your phone at the pillows on your bed. You miss and the device crashes into the wall with a deafening clatter before bouncing back onto the mattress. Part of you hopes it isn't too thrashed, but it's really hard to give a shit right now. 

When you open your eyes, all you can see is the bright white glare of your walls— just like your phone screen, like the blazing sun at midday, like a car speeding closer with no intent to stop. Roseate eyes fly closed, face scrunched up and eyes burning. You inhale shakily, exhale brokenly, and paw weakly at searingly damp eyes. A shiver wracks your frame as you lean against the chilly surface of the wall. 

It's no warmer when you curl up into a ball in the corner of the room, but you bury your head in between your chest and knees and decide that the suffocating darkness is better than the light, anyway. 


	10. sweet dreams, i guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're fairly certain she's smiling.

She grabs you by the wrist and physically drags you out of the over crowded reception building and outside to the empty hotel balcony. The tile feels cool under your bare feet, slick with light dew, and the lights above you twinkle softly against the star-speckled night sky. Not a single expense was wasted on the wedding of a certain blonde best friend's older sister, but for once, you find that you really don't care about the over-extravagance of the event. Roxy was standing beside you, quietly snickering at the grumpy waiters and waitresses with you, the entire time. 

She's still by your side, but this time, more before you, hands placed gently over your own as she places them on her waist. Compared to the crisp night air, she's warm. The overly loud music from inside the reception area leaks out through the walls and doors, and she steps in time with the muffled music, hands wrapped loosely around your neck. 

It's a slow paced dance, unchanged by the music, as you two meander aimlessly over the empty balcony in the 1am light of the moon. She smiles tiredly, but happily, resting her head on your shoulder as you danced. If it weren't for the fact that she hasn't yet tread on your toes or drooped completely off of you, you'd assume she was asleep. You continue to match her lethargic pace, a lazy smile tugging slightly at your own lips, too. 

"You're warm," she murmurs into your shoulder, tightening her arms around you slightly. "S'not a fair body heat distribution." 

You chuckle lowly. "Well, I am bigger than you. If it's really that much a problem, Rolal, why don't you go take it up to the rule makers of basic physics then?" 

She unwraps a hand from your neck just to punch you lightly in the ribs. It doesn't hurt; you scoff at her attempt and gently lift her head up off your shoulder to meet your gaze. Her eyes are tired— half lidded and heavy, but still as bright and warm a roseate as ever. 

"Hey, how about we ditch?" you suggest, and her eyes widen slightly before returning to normal and sparking with a hint of mischief. "I doubt your sis and her wife'll be disbanding anytime soon, and we're both tired as fuck." She nods, humming in agreement. "I mean, when was the last time we had a proper sleepover, Lalonde? Damn, if shit were to wait any longer, we might just have to hire a whole new narrator, Spongebob style." 

She snorts, dropping her head back into your shoulder. "Hell yeah," you catch her mutter. "You have ta carry me though, Di-stri." 

"You can walk, Rox; come on." 

"Nuh uh. Too tired." And as if to prove her point, she completely gives out her legs, tightening her grip around your neck and hanging there for half a second before you're forced to put a hand behind her knees and back and throw her up bridal style. She's smirking triumphantly and you bring up a knee to bump her butt. She squeaks, shooting you a glare, and you simply shrug in response. 

Her head eventually finds itself buried into your shoulder once again as you carry her down to your car. 

"Hey, Ro," you say eventually, the quiet of the virtually empty parking lot a bit too much for you. 

"Leave me 'lone," she murmurs sleepily, stirring slightly in your arms. 

You roll your eyes, scoffing at her, and she weakly swats your chest. 

"What d'you want?" she asks, voice muffled by the fabric over your shoulder. 

"Nothing," you reply. "Just; sweet dreams, I guess." 

You're fairly certain she's smiling as she tightens the grip around your neck, shifting so she can bury her face more into your shoulder. 

"Thanks, Di. You, too." 


	11. ninety eight percent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're literally 99% frowny mcfrownerson. There is no room for argument, Di."

She kindly sits herself down right in his lap, leaving no room for argument as she sprawls backward onto the couch and groans dramatically. 

“Diiiiiiiirk, holy shit, I think I’m half dead; did my homework leave me half dead am I a ghost can you feel me sittin’ here on your lap, yes/no?” 

He exhales a quick scoff at her impossibly run on sentence, and she elbows his thigh in response. 

“Whoa, Lalonde; getting physical now, are we?” he quips. 

“Nope, I am not in the mood for your shitty innuendos.” She flips around, pressing her face into his thigh and mumbling incoherently, something along the lines of, “Your’s ’re no fun anyway because usually no one can understand all the stupid bigass words you say.” 

"I believe we've got something akin to a 'big word' deficit this time around," he points out. She groans audibly in response. 

"Fuck yourself with a cactus; you're using big words on purpose and I refuse to put up with this bull." 

A low chuckle escapes from his lips, and she can tell he's rolling his eyes underneath those pointed shades of his. She reaches her hand up to his face, pretending to wipe nothing off on it, and he recoils with a quick exclamation of, "Hey!" 

"The fuck was that for?" he asks, frowning. 

Before he can even blink, she snatches the shades off his face, rolling herself off of his lap and situating herself on the opposite end of the couch. 

"My psychic senses told me you were rollin' your pretty boy eyes at me, so I had to have my revenge somehow!" Roxy slides the shades over her face, putting on an exaggerated frown. 

"I don't look anything like that, ever." 

"Obvs you've never looked into a mirror then because you're literally 99% frowny mcfrownerson. Like, there is no room for argument, Di." 

Dirk doesn't reply, instead leaning over and grabbing Roxy by the arm, pulling her back over to his side. She tumbles down into his lap once again, head landing on his thigh with a brief, "Oof!" on her part. He plucks the shades off her face and slides them over his hair, where they rest like pointed cat's ears. She pouts up at him, face scrunched up in an attempt to fake annoyance at his intrusion of her personal space. 

He smirks back at her. "You're going to have to try harder if you really want me to believe you're annoyed at me." 

With of a quick roll of her roseate eyes and a soft scoff, he can see the smile that she's biting back at his quip. She elbows him in the stomach, and all he does is laugh, a small half-smile pulling up at his own lips. His reaction stretches her lips into a warm, wide grin and she looks up at him fondly. His low laughter dies down, and he shoots her a curious look, raised eyebrow and quirked lips. 

She lefts out a single, soft laugh, and if anything, her grin widens. 

"Make that 98% mister frowny," she amends, "but you're one percent closer to showin' that hella smile 'a yours more often." 

He rolls his eyes, and apparently he expected it because as she reaches up to swat him in the chest, he catches her hand. "Ah, ah, Lalonde, what did I say about getting physical on my new couch?" he asks, tapping the back of her hand lightly. 

She meets his gaze levelly. "You said you highly encourage it, obviously," she replies seriously. 

He raises an eyebrow. She smirks back. 

Roxy bursts into laughter after that, and he keeps a hold of her hand as she nearly tumbles off the couch, laughing softly himself. 


	12. paint a sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roxy Lalonde, last human on earth, she had called herself. He called himself the same thing, too, once upon a time.

He’d be up early enough every day to see the sunrise peeking out from over the horizon and shining on the surface of the still ocean. The bright rays would paint the clouds a soft shade of roseate, and she would be the first thing on his mind. 

He took a deep breath, switching the heavy metal blade from one hand to the other, slow inhalations and deep exhalations as he stood light on his feet, carrying the blade through an attempt to relax, to wind down before the day came crashing down on him. 

The light pink painted across the sky was dusty and warm, the rays of light peeking out from tinted clouds, comforting and familiar, nearly as familiar as the bright smile and quick quips that came attached with such a color. The clean laughs and soft voice played gently in the back of his mind, and Dirk inhaled deeply, setting the tip of his katana against the concrete surface of his roof and opening his eyes. 

Even behind dark shades, the clouds still shone with a roseate more comforting than the delicate sunlight falling on his tanned skin. He sat down, hands wrapped around the worn handle of his blade, eyes cast out toward the sun as it started to show higher and higher above the horizon. When he blinked, the soft roseate was still imprinted on his eyelids. 

He slipped his phone out of his pocket, absently sliding his fingers across the cold, glass surface, opening up a long outdated chat client and scrolling through his long list of three contacts. None of them were awake, not that he expected it at this hour, but he still looked at the first name with a small hint of a smile that no one else would ever see. 

Roxy Lalonde, last human on earth, she had called herself. He called himself the same thing, too, once upon a time. 

Meeting her was the story— _his_ story— of how the color of the sunrise, all warm and pink and soft, came to mean more than a new day, but a new hope and another life alongside his own. With close-held conversations and treasured calls in the dead of night, words spilled themselves out into the pages of his dreadfully empty books, a whirlwind of pinks that was undulating and bright. 

In a few simple words, Roxy Lalonde was the biggest plot twist to ever be written into the life of Dirk Strider. 

And with his own shade of sunset, just dark enough to feel real, he helped paint them a sunrise, both newer and bright, and this time it was two hues together instead of two just alone. 


	13. put up a fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irritatingly warm breaths skitter across your skin whenever she exhales, smelling of tangy dessert wine and spiced rum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: gratuitous kismesis shipping

kiss me she says, and you immediately frown.

Excuse me?

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. Her stupidly bright roseate eyes flutter open,meet yours once more, and she replies impassively, u heard me.

Your frown deepens, hardening into a scowl. Yeah, I did. Kind of hard to ignore that obnoxious voice of yours, Lalonde. Besides, it wasn't that I didn't hear. It's more like I can't muster the minimal amount of fucks to give in order to further contemplate whatever bullshit you just spewed.

She narrows her eyes at you, chin tilted upwards in that frustratingly domineering way as she glares at you with her hands on her hips. Shit, if that wasn't sassy, you didn't know what was. i always knew u were closed minded strider but damn way 2 prove me even righter

You don't immediately react, just shove your hands in your pockets and shrug, the epitome of nonchalant and unaffected. Hate to break it to you, doll, but you ain't exactly using righter in the right sense there. Her eyes narrow even more, and she looks about ready to punch you; the corner of your lips twitch up into a small smirk. You tried, though, so don't feel too bad. Already gainin' that second IQ point there; try harder and you might even have three.

She marches up to you, lips set into a scowl, and grabs you by the front of your sleeveless black shirt. Her fingernails scrape sharply across the skin of your chest, leaving a residual stinging in your skin, and she yanks you down to her height— just a few inches, but still enough to make you stumble. all im hearin is blah blah bluh bs this stupid that. Her imitation of your accent is scarily spot on, and for a moment, you want to kick her in the throat. tbh its all u ever say. where do you even hide all that bs of urs— in that empty head or up that tihgt ass or what?

Whoa there, no need to deplete your limited cache of insults in one go. Spare me the fucking pain. 

Her eyes flash, and before you know it, she's yanking you down even further, her knee colliding with your stomach in the span of less than a second. Both the air and your shades are knocked from you— one out of your lungs and the other off your face and skittering across the floor— and you're on the ground, hissing in pain through clenched teeth.

oopsies she says with an cold smile, and you glare openly at her. She shrugs, unapologetically and uncaringly, thin lips curled up into a smug smirk. You don't dive for your shades, instead directing yourself at the blonde's legs, knocking her off her feet with a loud yelp and an admittedly satisfying thud as she lands on her ass. You have the upper-hand for a second, but she recovers quickly, catching your shoulder with her heel and pushing you to the ground, pinning you beneath her as she presses her arm against your throat.

youre supposed to put up a real fight u know? she asks, even though she knows you can't reply with her arm cutting off your air supply. this is just pathetic distri

You don't waste any energy in trying to reply, resorting to shooting her a sharp glare as you bring your elbow up to her face, knocking her away swiftly. She tumbles over a few feet, on her hands and knees as she spits blood out of her mouth. You give her no time to recover, as she did to you, and tackle her, pinning her hands on either side of her head and her knees in between your own. You're stronger than her and are able to keep her trapped as she tries to escape.

I'm curious— who's the pathetic one now, Rolal? Her only response is to glare. I'll give you a hint, then. She's losing this fight.

She whips her head forward, slamming against your forehead with the brunt of her skull, and you loosen your holds on her long enough for her to slide her legs free, pushing you backwards with her knees. Your positions are reversed and she's pinning you once more, legs straddling your waist and hands twisting your arms into painful angles. Her face is all too close to yours; irritatingly warm breaths skitter across your skin whenever she exhales, smelling of tangy dessert wine and spiced rum.

what was that u were saying? she asks coyly, flashing that toothy smirk of hers. You want to punch those unfairly perfect teeth out. i cant hear you over how pathetically ur failin

You glare up at her, fingers clenching as your mind races, proposing countless different ways in which you could escape. She seems to notice the calculating look in your eyes; her fingers tighten around your wrists, fingernails barely a few more ounces of pressure away from breaking skin and spilling blood. It hurts. A pained groan is only half held back, escaping past barred teeth and a tight throat, and the sound bringing a triumphant spark to her eyes.

ooh is the big bad strider givin up?

Her scoff is breathily warm, and the fight or flight thoughts in your head falter.

Fuck no.

With a large grunt of effort, you throw the both of you to the side, catching the slight widening of her roseate eyes and her soft squeak as you do so. You land half on top of her in a tangle of limbs and a jungle of messed up hair, her eyes still wide and oddly devoid of their previous malice. You're not sure where your mind is, either, especially when she blinks, gaze flickering down from your own eyes to what you're certain is your mouth. She licks her lips, teeth tugging at them absently, and you hate the way your heart skips way too many fucking beats.

Her eyes flutter shut, and as she tilts her head up slightly to brush her lips against your's, your own eyes fall shut, too. She's anything but soft, and she bunches up the front of your shirt in her hands, fingernails scraping skin and knee against your stomach as she rolls you over and takes control. The blonde leaves you no time to regain your breath, biting at your lips and trailing her hands distractingly over your skin, keeping you attached at the mouth and any coherent thoughts away.

Her breath is hot as she breaks away, panting heavily over your face; you pull her back down, catching her by surprise and smirking at the moan she elicits as you run your hands along her sides. She returns with equal fervor and if there was something you were trying to do earlier, the thought is chased away by her hands in your hair and your tongue in her mouth as lingering fingers fumble with fabric.


	14. butterfly ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You feel like butterfly ashes floating in the air.

The fact (not opinion because that would mean others could rightly think differently; they can't) that she doesn't deserve to die and that _you don't deserve to die beside her_ is the last thought on your mind as dagger-point flames engulf you. Never mind the fact that you don't quite want to die without concrete guarantee of coming back, nor the selfish reassurance you give yourself in thinking: wherever you go, she's coming along, too. 

Whomever it was that said in dying you find peace, you want to bring them back just so you can kill them again. To feel the flames so blisteringly hot; it's almost as if you're falling flat into liquid nitrogen with both the sting of impact and merciless freeze of negative temperatures. 

You remember that one time you fooled around with dry ice before; you were young and stupid and thought you could handle it. In the end, the cold felt like the kind of burns your builder's hands knew too well; you ended up having to message Roxy about the entire ordeal whilst typing with your toes, and a few hour later, she took pity on you and told you she rigged up a video chat function last night. The irritation that pulled down at your lips evaporated when you saw her face for the first time, laughing obnoxiously at something between your chagrin and shades with strikingly dark lips and bright sunrise eyes. _She was perfect._

The memory flits away and you wonder if this is what it is, when your life flashes before your eyes. (But it's just you thinking you're better than you are and hurting yourself in the process; just her waiting until you've learned that to offer her help and her infectious smiles and her bright eyes. It's then when you realize she practically _is_ your life, but now you're dead and it can't yet be explored.) The pain subsides and you feel like butterfly ashes floating in the air before nothing. 

Nothing is the only way to explain it; no peace and no pain, no hope nor reason to despair, no you and no her. It's only in looking back at it that you can really see that it's _terrifying_ and you're so glad you're done with it. 

Coming back to life is like your chest filling with false breath and releasing it all at once. The nothing explodes from you and when you gasp, the air feels like an arid summer day. Liquid stardust drips off you with tingles in its wake, and you breathe in greedily, urgently, deciding to fuck control and feel the oxygen race through your veins once again. 

There's a soft sigh and you turn to look at her drenched in stardust and deeply drinking in the air like it was a fresh spring afternoon — slowly, deeply, quietly — savoring this newfound serenity for all she can. (When was it that she become so mature, so controlled?) She is suddenly patience more than you have ever known; innocent wonder and awe as she stretches her hands out before her and catches stars. They slip through her fingers like the breathy giggle through her lips and, she turns to look at you. 

She gasps audibly and you feel both uncertain and guilty as she stares at you with cloudy sunrise eyes and trembling, agape lips. You have no words and she cannot form hers. There's no time for you to taste her name in your mouth before you feel her in your arms, shaky breaths warm into your chest and hands twisting desperately into your tunic. 

For a moment, you hug her just as tightly, resting your head atop hers until she stops trembling (and you stop shaking). She calms down and unhands your tunic, wrapping her arms weakly around you; you loosen your grip and pat her back softly. 

"I'm so sorry," you both exhale simultaneously. 

She looks _into your eyes_ (never before have you felt so _naked_ with your shades on), and then all hell breaks loose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rereading the trickster mode stint was way more painful that I thought it'd be.


	15. dementia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has tears in her eyes as she tells him she wants to dance in the streets in the pouring rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ inspired by owl city's song [dementia](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fvt2MVf_3qk&feature=kp): _dementia, you're driving me crazy!_ ]

He walks into their shared apartment after two days away at a robotics convention to find Owl City music blaring and a seemingly unconscious Roxy Lalonde with her legs propped up against the arm of the couch and her face buried in the cushions. A bottle of cheap red wine is half empty on the coffee table, sideways and wallowing in its own burgundy liquid and the empty wine glass lays on the carpet. A pint of melted ice cream is completely uneaten on the table, and her laptop sits half open on the ground. 

The keys are hastily tossed aside as Dirk lets the door slam shut and rushes in, maneuvering through scattered tissues and open drama-romance movie boxes. The stem of the wine glass breaks with a muted snap under his sole, but the blond cares not as he sits on the couch and shakes his companion gently. 

She doesn't respond, and he shakes her more urgently. With an incoherent groan, she reaches a languid hand up to smother his face; the smell of tangy Merlot and over-salted popcorn invades his nose, and he pushes her hand away with a roll of his eyes. 

"Fucking hell, Lalonde," he mutters, huffing to himself. "Get up and explain why our apartment looks like a shitstorm on LSD tore through here with an entire half-rate convenience store." 

"Because it did," she replies moodily, voice muffled by the cushions. "'Cept it was obviously PCP, you robot-fetishizing shit." He catches the exhausted slur of her words and the broken lilt of her tone; it is only for those two factors that he doesn't shove her off the couch for the robot remark. 

With a sigh, he tugs at her arms, pulling her up. "Up and at 'em, you cat-obsessive fuck," he says without malice, and she remains dead weight as he does so. Roxy collapses into the back cushions of the couch, her lead lolling back almost painfully, and the first things he notices are the black mascara trails beneath her closed eyes and the deep-set scowl of her lips. 

"Roxy, what happened?" All hints of casual insulting are gone from his voice, and he grabs her shoulders, shaking them until her eyes fly open. 

They are bloodshot, wide and unfocused, and when they finally zero in on him, he slides his shades up into his hair and stares back steadily. Her breath comes out shaky and her lip starts to quiver; soon enough, she's crying with a hand hovering over her eyes like it wanted to catch tears but were scared they'd burn. 

He waits a second too long to pull her into his chest, but does it anyway, and she sobs into his shirt as if the extra time never existed. Her wails turn into whimpers, and he catches snippets of a story coming from her mouth — boyfriend and breakup, professor and lost her assignment, Calliope and moving away. She feels like shit for feeling like _shit_ , she says, and it's been a terrible set of days. Dirk sticks through it all, muttering useless reassurances and rubbing circles into her back soothingly. 

Roxy hiccups, burying deeper into his embrace, and he reaches for the remote on the table, turning down the music until their breathing rings louder. 

"Jake called the other day, too," she mutters, voice traveling in warm flutters and vibrations against his chest. "Something about Seattle with Janey and the rain. It was sweet." 

He hums absently in acknowledgement; Jake had emailed him about the flooded streets, too; Dirk linked him to a boat salesman's page simply because he could, and that was the end of said conversation. He's forgotten what it is like to feel rain on his face and hear it softly against the window in this dry southern California right by the beach, but if he's more envious than amused by Jake's complaints, it isn't ever mentioned. 

Roxy pulls away from his arms and she still has tears brimming in her eyes as she tells him — soft, candid, simple — that she wants to dance in the streets in the pouring rain. "I want to pull someone with me until they run to outrun me and we trip into a puddle," she sniffles. "I want us to laugh 'til it _hurts_ because we don't have to give a shit that we're drenched to the last goddamn cell, and, you know, maybe I want to be _kissed in the rain_ , Dirk, until my head fuckin' _spins_. I don't wanna have to say anything," she says smally, "to know that we have everything going for us." 

The fact that they live in a coastal desert, that it's almost summer and that it practically never rains — he doesn't pay them any heed as he rests his hands on her shoulders, looking her right in her roseate eyes and promising her that and the world. 

Her teary-eyed smile makes his stomach flip, and she hugs him until he cannot breathe. Dirk coughs the remark quietly into her ear, and she laughs airly, ecstatically before loosening her grip. His arms are around her and when he breathes in, it is her scent that sends his heartbeat pattering like the elusive rain he's promised to her; he wonders when her quixotic brand of dementia found itself inside him, too, driving him to a crazy where he cannot quite bring himself to care. 


	16. some semblance of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He takes her words for all they're worth: for the pain in his chest, for the guilt eating at his conscience, for the sound of her voice after months of just nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No SBURB AU; trigger warning for implied underage drinking / detox

She's lying down on the ground with her legs thrown over the top of her bed when he walks in. Golden hair is sprawled out around her head like a straggled halo and her eyes are scrunched up as if she were trying to forcefully make herself sleep. Adding in the dark bags under her eyes and the haphazard sprawl of her arms across messy floors, she looks the epitome of broken. 

His stomach twists and he feels choked up; he could leave, just right now, and she wouldn't know he was ever here. Dirk curls his hands into fists, the nails digging into his palm, and when he exhales, there are dark crescents in his tanned skin. 

Without a word, he sighs and sits quietly beside her. She doesn't move at all, and he wonders if she's actually awake or sleeping fitfully. Her pink kitty clock ticks monotonously on the opposite wall, and the window filters in yellow sunlight. 

He runs lines in his head; they all end up stilted and hollow. Jane has already been in here many times, expressing her concern with worried cyan eyes and a soft frown. She would sigh sadly whenever Jake or Dirk would ask about their blonde friend, and Dirk would force himself to tune the rest out. Detox was never a pretty thing, he knew, and had no desire to hear how Roxy's improved or how she's worsened (this topic always ended up a lot longer than the former and after a few weeks, he couldn't handle it any longer). Every offer Jane puts up for the two to visit her always ends up declined by Dirk with a perfectly valid and perfectly illegitimate excuse. 

Jake expresses his worry openly and candidly, and Dirk always nods automatically in return, never finding the will to tell the boy that he's over-worrying. Never mind the emptiness Dirk holds inside him, painfully numb to anything _Roxy_ and desperately wanting it to be over and done with and all well among them. The last memory the blond has of his closest friend is bright eyes and (false) grins, and somehow, he doesn't want to let go of the last image of her smile. (He's selfish in that way, but makes sure to tell Jake and Jane to send Roxy his regards every time.) 

A cloud passes over the sun, darkening the room in which he resides, and he pushes his shades up into his hair. He sees her closed eyes twitch, and her slim fingers curl tightly up into the carpet beneath her. He opens his mouth to speak before realizing he has no words and closes it again. 

Dirk is back to rehearsing meaningless lines again when she interrupts him, voice shaky and hoarse. 

"Why now?" 

The question hits him like a dagger to the heart, but at least the furrow is gone from her brows; now, she just looks _tired_. He takes her words for all they're worth: for the pain in his chest, for the guilt eating at his conscience, for the sound of her voice after months of just nothing. 

He doesn't say anything, and she seems perfectly fine with it. With a thud, she throws her feet back to the ground and curls her knees up into herself. Her head rests on her knees and she opens her eyes to look at him. Hesitantly, he meets her gaze. His lips press into a thin line and she sighs, closing her eyes and turning to press her cheeks to her knees; he watches her — the slump of her shoulders, the veiny pale of her lanky limbs, the hopeless mess of her golden hair. 

"Taking you a while to comment on how shitty I look," she croaks. He frowns at the sidelong look her sunset eyes shoot him. "Jay and Janey are too nice to say it," she continues, "but I know it's true. Don't need a fuckin' mirror to know that the girl who feels worse than crap'll look like it, too." 

"You do," he agrees ruefully, listlessly, and she presses her face into her knees, laughs bitterly into echoes of her self-made cavern. 

Her laughter fades, and he's scared he'll break her should he place a hand on his shoulder. Instead, they let the silence lap over them like a high tide in spring, colder than it is refreshing, drowning more than it aims to rejuvenate. The cloud blows over and sunlight sets her hair aflame in bright golds; she's pale as death — a ghost in the flesh (as nonsensical as that sounds). 

She sniffles quietly, wipes her eyes against her knees; he pretends not to notice, observes her wordlessly from the side of his eyes and places his hand beside the one that lies tearing into the carpet for dear life. Maybe she senses his warmth because the fingers relax just the slightest bit, and he doesn't move, staring out at the window as another cloud blots out the sun, sending them back into shadows. 

He counts her slow breaths and the clouds that drift by; they never line up correctly, just like the words he wants to say and the words he says. A new absence of warmth finds her hands wrapped about herself tightly instead of beside his, and he retracts his own robotically, curling it into a fist that he shoves in his pockets. The sun disappears yet again; he counts forty-seven breaths and it doesn't come back. 

"I chose now," he begins in a whisper, "because I'm a fucking coward," he breathes out — words, excuses, months of absences and eternities of concealed truths. She doesn't stir at first — maybe she's asleep — but her quivering sigh is caught by his sharp ears. He waits for an elaboration that never comes. "I thought that if I never saw you how Jane described you, I wouldn't believe it and it wouldn't be true. That you'd stay the way you were in my head— some semblance of _happy_." 

The sun reappears, and when she lifts her head, her eyes are filled with tears. She inhales shakily, swallows thickly, and when she raises her arm, Dirk doesn't expect it when she _punches him in the face_. 

His head is spinning and his cheekbone smarts, but he faintly registers her collapsing atop him, wringing his shirt and sobbing into the fabric. "Why are you so _stupid_?" Roxy cries, punctuating each word with a pound to your chest. 

He doesn't respond and she doesn't stop crying, even as she wraps her arms around his back and soaks tears through his shirt. His hands are tentative around her lanky frame, rubbing awkward circles into her back and patting hiccups out at her shoulders until time fades into nothing at the back of his mind. 

When her sobbing quietens, she tilts her head up to look up at him. Her roseate eyes are still damp from the tears, but with the light of the fading sun, they almost look like sunrise again. 


	17. The Art of Meeting Your Best Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What even happened to the "Striders don't do nervous" sentiment? God, what is this — amateur hour? The cup of cold water at your window side table suddenly looks very spillable. That weekend specials advertisement is pointless because they have that same deal everyday. These table flowers aren't even real. What the actual fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Sburb AU!
> 
> I had too much fun writing this, ehehe.

You fidget. 

Not nervously, though. Never nervously. Striders don't do nervous just as much as sex addicts _do_ do _it_. 

Fuck, that was a terrible analogy. You frustratedly tap your fingers against your already jittering leg as you silently berate yourself for such a piece of shit analogy. If it were possible to win awards for most terrible figures of speech, you'd easily take the gold, bronze, and honorable mention in one fell swoop. But not silver because there's always the awkward fifteen year old prepubescent with his shitty puns, snatchin' up them second places like the last bottle of apple juice in the fridge. You make a mental note to buy more apple juice before Dave flips a bitch and you have to flip him and remind him that he took the last goddamned bottle. 

Back on the subject at hand, you finally realize you're fidgeting terribly and groan out loud. Clenching your fists stops the tapping and you forcefully will your feet to stop trying to Irish clog dance the fuck outta this little cafe. You don't even know how to clog. 

The little bell attached to the cafe door chimes, and you turn your head up, only to find a couple walking in, hand in hand and whispering evidently saccharine things to each other; your audible exclamation of frustration is barely held back. 

You were supposed to be meeting a friend here today — your best friend, to be specific, and she has yet to arrive. It then hits you that she's your best friend and _why the fuck are you so fucking nervous_. What even happened to the "Striders don't do nervous" sentiment? God, what is this — amateur hour? The cup of cold water at your window side table suddenly looks very spillable. That weekend specials advertisement is pointless because they have that same deal everyday. These table flowers aren't even real. What the actual fuck. And you could talk about the throw-ability of that fork right here, but you know what? You're going to calmly refrain. 

Instead, you glance out the window, looking for someone — and you quote — with " kinda curly blodne hair that curls out like vwoop and pink eyes that r totally hella dont even TRY to argue w me. no glasses or anything and also i think im p tall and yoU WIPE THAT SMIRK OFF UR FACE RIGHT NOW DISTRI I BET UR ACTUALLY FUCKIN 4'11 R SOME SHIT". When no such person appears, you drop your head into your hands, pushing up your pointed shades to rub tiredly at your eyes. 

What if she doesn't show up? you wonder to yourself. Or maybe she's here right now, but the description you gave of yourself was too shitty and you two were never destined to meet. Fuck. Meeting friends from the internet is stressful, even if you technically met her over seven years ago. You stay with your head in your hands for a few minutes, willing away the recent headache you've just give yourself. 

The bell rings a few times in sucession, and you ignore it, chalking it off as a bunch of middle school kids who want refuge and hot chocolate on this brisk, New York autumn day. You get up, making to head outside for a breath of air when you hear a loud gasp. Turning around, you're met with the sight of a slender blonde girl, face covered with both hands as she laughs a musically loud laugh that is peppered with shaking shoulders and quiet, "oh my god"s. 

You're affronted, of course, and the annoyance only builds up as people begin to stare, but then she regains her breath, her chortles quieting into giggles as she meets your gaze with fingers over her black-painted lips and the brightest pair of roseate eyes glinting up at you. Whatever biting remark you had ready withers away, rendering you surprised in a way that only makes you extremely thankful that you wear your shades. 

Her amused grin flashes white teeth, and when she hugs you, you notice that she really is tall, only about half a foot shorter than yourself. You have absolutely no idea of what to do with yourself, but as people continue to watch on, you decide to drag the both of you out into the cool fall air. The door closes with a jingle of the bells. She looks at you with something between mischievous amusement and excited glee. When she speaks, her voice is tinged with a definite New Jersey accent. 

"Wow, Distri; I knew your shades were something else, but I didn't think they'd be that 'look at me!! I'm fuckin' kawaii-desu anime-chan!'." 

If you didn't know what to do with the pretty girl who turned out to actually be your best friend before, the quip sends electricity running to your gears again; you push up your shades, replying with a lax, "Oh please; terrible butchering of Japanese terminologies aside, you wouldn't know fuckin' kawaii-desu as hell unless it hit you in the face, which I haven't, yet." 

She snorts. "Yeah, can't say I make it a habit to hit myself that much. Could give _you_ a friendly punch to the gut if you wanted, though, eh Distri?" Her smirk is the very essence of femme fatale, and it makes you snort. 

"And have you shatter your poor fist on this wall of rock? Nah; that'd hardly be the most polite thing to do. Goddamn, Rolal, what do you take me for? I'm nothing if not ironically all about Southern hospitality even a good hundreds of miles away from home." 

"Well, keep up your hospitable cowboy traditions up, and maybe I'll help make sure you don't actually regret bringing your hermit ass up here to meet." She smiles a real smile, and you're sure you shoot her back a smirk, but both corners of your lips could be twitching up. 

"I'll hold you to that, Madame tour guide. Please do educate my lowly, rancho-cowboy-hermit self to the great glories of smoggy city air, aggressive piece-of-shit drivers and New York," you reply with excessive sarcasm. 

When Roxy laughs again, it's a quieter sound than in the coffee store, but still as true, and it hits you that the sound makes you feel at ease. You don't feel so much like fidgeting and maybe that poster in the window isn't too neon lime. She hails a taxi while telling you about this crazy thing her cat did the other night, and it feels as if the two of you had know each other for years. 

Which, really, you have. 


	18. Unfair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Going to college in the same area kind of brings things into light, doesn't it?"
> 
> You blink.
> 
> "Well shit, Dirk. It kinda does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy spring break to me, meaning wow look at all this free time I now have to write...
> 
> Semi-inspired by but in no way related to the previous chapter: [The Art of Meeting Your Best Friend](http://archiveofourown.org/works/985887/chapters/2852524)

You wake up in an unfamiliar bed, which alarmed you at first. But, a quick mental checklist ensures that you are fully clothed, don't feel the aftertaste of alcohol in your mouth, and are completely at a loss of how the fuck you got here. Well shit. 

With a groan, you push yourself up, leaning back against the metal headboard of the oddly tangerine bed you've found yourself in; when the air proves too cold, you shiver and slide back under the covers, inhaling contentedly the scent of pine needle laundry detergent and something that smells like sugar and citrus. Sleep almost pleasantly reclaims you again before, with a jolt, you realize you still don't know where you are. 

You bolt up with a violent creak of bed springs, and it takes three quarters of a second before the blood rushes to your head and you find yourself careening blearily to the ground. 

_Oh, hey wassup floor, my man; you looking pre'y down today._

You'd mentally laugh at the pun if you actually weren't racing toward an inevitable bloody nose. There could have been a rustle of fabric, and maybe you hear footsteps, but everything is quick and slow all at once, and warm hands find your shoulders and your face finds a really warm wall. 

Wait, never mind; that's a torso and _damn_ do they got abs. Wow, now is not the time to be thinking of this. But _d-a-m-n_ , man, you feel me? JK, you don't wanna feel me, you wanna feel this dude's fucking toned as hell stomach. God. 

The warm hands rub reassuringly at your upper arms, pushing you back up to your feet and holding you steady when you sway. Your vision still spins a little and you're seeing multiples, but you can kind of make out his face, blonde hair, and _whoa when the fu' did jesus get so swaggy???_

He snorts quietly, and shit, did you just say that out loud? What the fuck, mind, keep to the goddamned program yo. Fucking amateur. He chuckles again and sits you gently back down on the bed, draping a cover over your shoulders. 

"You okay, Roxy?" he asks in a voice of the _fucking gods_ , and you pathetically reply with a groggy, "Nooo," as you collapse backwards into the mattress. It takes a moment for your head to stop its stupid pliés in your head — you don't even ballet — and then your _amateur_ brain reminds you that _hellur Rolal stranger danger; get ur head in the game girl!_ Your eyes promptly fly open. 

"Wait a minute," you begin oh-so-astutely. "How d'you even know my name man? I mean, what the fuck; I don't think I know you? And I _am_ , like, 97% sure I don't know who you are, which would be okay if I was trippin' on some kinda booze, but that ain't the case right now, swaggy jesus, so I wanna know what's up." You inhale a rightly earned breath after speaking nearly nonstop. "Like, now. And preferably startin' with your name." 

He waits for you to regain your breath before speaking. You do, and then slowly sit up to face him when you're done. He turns out to be unfairly attractive along with unfairly polite, and _god, if it weren't for the fact that you didn't know him this would be so much cooler._

"I was almost tempted to change my name to swaggy jesus right here, but if you want to speak legally, it's Dirk. You probably know my step-sister, though; Jane and you go to the same college, no?" 

"Whoa whoa whoa, hold the presses," you say, holding up two hands. He's looking at you through the most simultaneously dorky and _hot_ shades, and it absently strikes you how the aspect of polite never struck you as part of the cover to his book. Huh, goes to show why you don't judge. Anyway. 

"When did Janey get such an attractive step-brother and why wasn't I alerted?" 

He arches an eyebrow at the compliment in a way that's both surprised and pleased, and come _on_ ; he's so hot that he could go through hydrogen fusion all on his own, and you had to say it at least once. 

"Well, we just started high school when our parents got married, and you and Jane were off at the private school while I finished up in Texas," he explained simply. "Going to college in the same area kind of brings things into light, doesn't it?" 

You blink. 

"Well shit, Dirk. It kinda does." 

He raises an incredulous eyebrow. "You still look lost." 

"Psh, nah man; I'm more found than an elementary kid's lucky sneakers after his soccer mom ransacked the shelves." 

"If you say so." 

"Damn right I do. Now, uh. How did I get here?" You gesture to the immediate vicinity, ie, his room. The walls are covered in blueprints and anime posters and the tables are hella cluttered, but the clutter is _sorted_ , so you don't quite know what to make of that. You decide to make nothing of it, but his taste in anime ranges from nerdy to acceptable, and hooooly shit, he watches that one, too? Wow, this boy is so unfair. 

"You and Jane were walking over from class yesterday when she called me and told me you fainted. I helped drive the both of you home, and you're welcome, by the way." He pauses, tilting his pointed shades down wink at you teasingly. His eyes are a startling sunset, and you're kind of reminded of your own abnormal irises. 

"Anyway," he continues, "Jane's at work right now and her room isn't unpacked yet, so that's why you're in my room specifically. Now, if I may ask; why the hell'd you collapse, anyway?" 

You purse your lips and chew the inside of your cheek. Unconsciously, your arms wrap around your stomach and you frown. Alright, so Dirk can have the truth, or you can come up with a totally badass lie. You weigh the options mentally. 

"My cat got sick and couldn't eat for a few days, so I decided to fast with him so he wouldn't be alone," you mumble lamely, moodily turning your gaze to an opposite wall. Dirk is silent, and when you're relieved at his apparent lack of reaction, he starts laughing, and you yank the covers off yourself and throw them at his face. His shades are knocked off, but he's still laughing as he picks them up and rests them back on his nose. 

"Jane wasn't kidding when she said you were something," he states breathily, and where you're pouty affront and pursed lips, he's cool amusement and resonating chuckles. 

"Hey, I'll have you know that —" 

He interrupts you with a light shove to the shoulder, pushing his shades up into his hair and meeting your eyes with a mirthful gaze. 

"It was a compliment, Roxy. It's a pleasure finally meeting my sister's best friend." 

Your face falls slack, and you're probably gaping like an idiot no matter how much you don't want to admit looking like an idiot. Three blinks, and you snap your mouth closed, letting a few soft giggles bubble past your lips, too. 

"Yeah, I guess it was," you agree with a smile. "S'nice meeting you too, Dirk. Welcome to the family." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus ending:
> 
> "Oh yeah, and just sayin'; I'd get charged for incest with you any day, if you catch my drift," you add half-jokingly; he just shakes his head and rolls his sunset eyes to the sound of your laughter, and wow you need to talk to Jane and ask why she kept her fucking babe of a step-bro a secret for so long.


	19. and we realign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's three a.m. and three years later, and under the few weak streetlights, he counts two of them.

The last time he was here, it was prom night. 

She was dressed in soft pink in a dress that swept the floor like fallen petals. In the brisk spring air, the rain was warm and the contrast was perfect. She had no qualms about dashing out into the showers as the street lamps set them aflame, leaving behind the stuffy dance, the uncomfortable heels and ties, and that ostentatious carriage they saved up two months to afford. 

He was dragged along by the hand at first, a bit lost and a bit bemused, but with an unfaltering smile, she pulled him out and he raced her barefoot down the empty sidewalks. 

She led them to their playground — the kingdom of their childhood — and he never found out if it was accident or fate; when they scrambled up the jungle gym, he beat her to the top and she deemed it unfair in her floor length dress. He offered a hand to help her up only to be batted away, but her grin never faded, so it was really okay. They sat pressed side to side on the small platform atop the metal structure as the rain began to clear away. 

He kissed her in the growing glow of the moon, saying her eyes looked like liquid stardust and it wasn't the moonlight; she was just perfect. She cried and they fell a little more in love, and the next day his bro told them they were moving to California and her mom was diagnosed with liver cancer and she missed graduation but he was already moving away that day anyway. He saw her once to say goodbye, but she was sleeping over hospital forms and tear-stained photographs and he couldn't find to courage to wake her. 

In hindsight, he should have. 

Dirk Strider walks with his hands in his pockets along the street where his first home used to be. Hers was down the next one, exactly eight minutes' walk away from his. She probably doesn't live there anymore. Her house phone was disconnected a few months after he moved away; he never forget the sound of her voice. 

His shades are pushed up into his hair so he can count the sea of similarities and the multitude of differences in the path he knows by heart. 

The sidewalk has been paved over since last he was here. It's perfectly smooth with no fissures or dents or cracks that children would give names and stories to. He remembers exactly how many cracks there were between his home and the park. Their names and their stories are a blur in the back of his mind, but he knows she came up with stories for all of them, wrote them in a book, and trusted him to name them — each and every one. 

He's almost amazed when the playground is still standing, but the sentimental part of him that she may or may not have instilled aches with familiarity. The swings have been finally painted over, the slide now holds all the rungs in its ladder, and the jungle gym's top has a little crow's nest with walls and a roof this time, still standing in the center of it all. 

Roxy might have liked that. It was like the tippy top of a ship in the stories of adventure she sometimes wrote. She'd make a flag with her silly four-eyed cat drawing on it and climb up there with impossible grace to set it to flight. She'd have to help him climb up, too, if it were night, so they could count the constellations and make new stories for them, too. He'd marvel at her skill and wish he'd be able to climb like that someday, too. 

It's funny because today he can climb like that, scaling the side of the jungle gym with practiced quiet, counting each bar as it shimmers dully in the weak streetlights. It feels like less because he has to skip a few to make up for his height. How weird that would've been for a child, even thinking of skipping steps in this giant of a metal jungle. 

When Dirk reaches the top, he's almost six years old again, almost falling down again when he sees a form curled up against the wall of the crow's nest. It's déjà vu when she grabs his hand and helps him back up, roseate eyes meeting his with shock then softness. 

She might be crying, but it's dark and she's hugging him so tightly he almost can't breathe; he's holding to her, too, missing the scent of that silly shampoo she so adored, the warmth of her arms no matter the cold, the sound of her voice exactly how he remembers. It's been three years and he wants to talk but he decides he needs her closeness more right now and hopes she can tell just what he's thinking as he thinks to her everything. 

"I'm so sorry, I should have called, _I'm so sorry_ ," she whimpers into his neck, and he pulls her back to arms' length to tell her to not be. Her tears glint like liquid gold in the yellow lamps, and he's a child again, asking her if she wants to see the constellations. 

He offers to help her up and she lets him; it's three a.m. and so dark outside, but he feels like Perseus when he and Andromeda realign. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble just might be my favourite _ever_ ; you don't under _stand_.


	20. to prose we return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You sit in the rain feeling like an overused cliche.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been telling myself I'd thank everyone for their amazing comments since five chapters ago, but I always kept forgetting, so. Thanks for the amazing comments everyone! Yeah! Whoo! I'm so late. ._.
> 
> Anyway, the amount of support and positive feedback I've gotten from this drabble collection so far has meant the world to me; thank you to everyone regardless of when you joined me on this journey. I mean, _holy shit_ — 1000 hits, guys. I hope everyone knows how much I really appreciate it.
> 
> Anyway, I've undoubtedly waffled on long enough. Read on!

  
_she acts like summer and walks like rain_

_reminds me that there's a time to change_

* * *

You just had a lecture about weather as a plot device in stories and you sit in the rain feeling like an overused cliche.

Your boyfriend broke up with you but apprently you're still friends, your two close friends are going to college together without you a thousand miles away, you can date almost anyone but it never seems to be someone that matters, your mom's death anniversary is this weekend, and your best friend of all is halfway across the world at an interntional robotics convention. 

Yeah, overused cliche is the perfect description of you. Next thing you know, ironically upbeat music will leak out from a nearby cafe window where happy couples share hot cocoa lovingly, and by some magical plot device, you will sigh and tear your eyes away from them tearily. 

You huff, but out of frustration in place of heartbroken depression. Please. You are more than capable of handling a break up, especially if he was already your friend before your boyfriend. It still stings though, especially if that couple sitting in Starbucks over there is going to fucking eskimo kiss right before the windows. Moodily turning away, you decidedly crush the forlorn damsel archetype and glare at the raindrops as they hit the ground. 

Kicking up imaginary stones, you stand up, squeezing your arms around yourself and walking no where and everywhere. Your hair hates it, but your feet seem to like the idea of the tangerine flowers along the paths of Central Park, and if your sigh sounds a little forlorn, it's for lack of best friend rather than lack of boyfriend. 

You wonder if it's sunny where he is. Maybe the sky is as clear as the glass of rainwater on your fire escape in May and he remembers you because that's your favourite month; you never let him forget that, never let him forget the feel of raindrops on his face or the smell of the sky right before it pours or how much you want to _marry_ the rain even though he has to serve your sniffling ass hot cocoa and soup the next day. In turn, he never lets you forget the brilliant August sun: how it messes up your hair on more humid days and he takes the time to laugh, maybe knowing just how much you love the sound. How he takes you for rides on his motorcycle even though he made you your own because he loves the adrenaline and your raucous cheering as the two of you race into the wind. How much it's all so much like him — the intensity, the purity, the teasing and passionate and comforting warmth. 

_God,_ you miss him. 

A shiver runs through you as the rainwater drips down your bare arms and you realize you've been staring at the poppies on the side of the walkway for a while now. There was never anyone around, so you can't tell just how long. The flowers don't seem to mind the accompaniment or the rain, though. They're a beautiful orange, a few shades darker than his eyes but just reminiscent enough to make you grimace. Then your lips grow into a scowl as you feel the forlorn damsel archetype come creeping up on you again. 

You huff again, noting the parallelism between now and earlier and wondering what the symbolism behind the rain-loving orange poppies would mean if your life was a story. Maybe it's some kind of deeper level message saying, _yes he loves you as much as you secretly love him_ , but it's really no secret that you're irrevocably in love with Dirk Strider; he's your best friend and you know him better than yourself and dammit if that's not the oldest plot device in the book but it's true. You'd rewrite the book if he never even asked, weave stories of mutual soul mates and shared heartbeats and every cliché but _better_ because you can explain those but you can't explain the two of you. 

The mental monologue brings a rueful laugh to your lips, and you can imagine him here now, rolling his eyes at you with the teasing hint of a smile that only he can pull off right. _"Only you would turn your life into an archetype-rich cliché fic involving symbolic metaphors that circle around me and the flowers that almost killed Dorothy while standing in the ass-cold rain, Rox,"_ he'd laugh, shaking his head from beneath an umbrella to your left. 

You'd keep your head tilted down toward the poppies, closing your eyes and letting yourself smile as you drink in the low rumble of his voice; his laughter would die off as you swing your shoulder back to nudge him and when his umbrella shook, he'd get wet and you'd get wetter and the false accusation in his next quip would make the both of you grin. 

He would put the umbrella away for a moment to take off his jacket and give it to you despite your protests and the goosebumps you try to hide. Closing your eyes, you can kind of feel him draping the dry fabric across your soaked shoulders, chastising you with almost-annoyance under his breath. 

"You're an idiot, Rolal; you know that, right?" Dirk asks incredulously, shoving his hands in his pockets beside you. You almost have a heart attack and he laughs because he can tell, can see the the shock in your wide eyes as you try and fail to process that it's him. 

"Turns out the convention committee fucked up and my panel's not until next year," he offers simply. "Might've stayed, but it rained over there and I thought of you." 

The hug you proceed to envelop him in is embarrassingly choking, but he takes it in stride and _fuck_ this is so cliché and maybe he can tell because he jokes in your ear: "You gonna kiss me in the rain next or somethin', Ro?" You tell him to shut up as you bury your face in his shirt and the both of you end up laughing it off in each other's arms. 


	21. ceiling can't hold us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wow, you almost got me there!" Cheshire exclaims much too jovially, and Dyke can feel her eyes twitch behind the mask. 
> 
> _[ genderbend, vigilante!AU ]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble is set in an AU I've been playing around with for a long time. Basic summary is that: 
> 
> Rolan Lalonde (Cheshire) is an ace criminal whose mother heads a crime empire and whose estranged step-family is part of a secret government agency. Dyke Strider is a righteous (and bored) rich kid who decides to become a vigilante to personally beat the shit out of this ace criminal because various reasons. Shit proceeds to happen.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Ooh," Cheshire coos, "Kitty's got claws!" 

Dyke scowls, shifting her electrified staff in a way that hopefully causes the metal to flash under the moonlight in a menacing fashion. These aren't just claws, bitch; you got the entire kitty here and _damn it_ , it was supposed to be tiger not kitty. Ah, fuck. 

The girl abandons all shitty metaphors and leaps at the masked fiend, aiming for his stupid platinum pretty-boy hair, hoping to singe a few strands off as well as shock him unconscious. A win-win, really. 

Cheshire effortlessly dodges with his hands behind his back, snickering all the while. Dyke feints left, then sends a swift roundhouse from her right, and when Cheshire falls backward, she almost cheers. That is, until the falling motion turns into a backflip and the masked boy lands in a flawless fighting stance. 

"Wow, you almost got me there!" Cheshire exclaims much too jovially, and Dyke can feel her eyes twitch behind the mask. "Maybe before I kill you, I can show you how to do it right, so you can fail to beat the shit out of people better in the after life. How about it, babe?" 

The lascivious wink behind his mask is tangible, and Dyke growls at him, fixing both hands on her staff and charging at Cheshire. He scoffs and sidesteps, kicking the staff out of her hands and drop kicking her before she even realized she missed her target. Mentally cursing every part of this stupid criminal's existence, Dyke twists around to see a bored Cheshire sitting on her back, holding both her wrists in one hand, examining the nails on his other hand, and pinning down both her legs with one foot. 

"So," Cheshire begins, still examining his unmarked nails. "are you goin' to say Uncle, or should I just keep sitting here?" Dyke squirms violently, trying to throw the asshole off, but he's strong and the position she's in makes the movements hurt. She watches the criminal casually admiring his nails for an extended moment, noting the way he repeats the same hand movements, and it hits her that he's patiently awaiting her admittance of defeat. 

"Fuck you!" Dyke replies instead, and Cheshire drops his hand and stares at her. The slits in his mask are small and Dyke can't see his eyes, but the dark shadows make her hold back a shiver as she bares her teeth and glares at him. 

The boy's gaze is broken as soon as it started, and he's back to examining his nails. "Sorry, I don't do good guys, even if they're cute," he tells her cheekily, and Dyke is about ready to _cut a fucking bitch_. She opens her mouth, ready to give the talking-to of her lifetime, but then a phone rings and she stops short. 

"Whoops, 'cuse me," Cheshire chirps, and takes a phone out of his pocket, putting it up to his ear. He listens for a moment before hanging up, and he jumps up off of Dyke with silent grace. "As fun as it was fighting with you," he says pleasantly, walking toward the roof's edge, "It actually wasn't. If there's ever a next time, try not to be such a fuckin' amateur, yeah?" 

Dyke grits her teeth, scrambling up to grab her electric staff and charging once more at the masked boy. Cheshire snickers, and right as Dyke swings at his head, he flips off the building's edge, landing below on a neighboring one without a sound. 

Laughing loudly at Dyke's outraged expression, Cheshire flashes a peace sign from the lower roof. "Later, noob!" he shouts, and Dyke shrieks profanities after him as he disappears. 

"Next time, that asshole is going to eat some fucking dirt," she swears to herself, and with one last glare into the night, Dyke heads home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is just a teaser, so to say; I'm still getting used to this universe. But! I might want to continue this, too, so I want your opinion. 
> 
> I can either continue writing drabbles for _tangerine and roseate_ , or I can take a break from that to work on this vigilante AU. Leave a comment to tell me what you'd like!


	22. You'd Be North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I came because my Roxy senses were tingling," he answers simply. It's lame and dorky and _lame_ , but it makes her cough out some weird cross between a gasp and a choke and a laugh, and a few rebellious tears tumble down her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, it's been so long since I've written Dirk/Roxy, so I'm probably out of practice; here's just a little thing I pounded out because I decided this collection needed some updating. Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Inspired by the song [If My Heart Was A House](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=quDk3iZtccI) by Owl City.

_circle me and the needle moves gracefully,_

_back and forth;_

_if my heart was a compass,_

_you'd be north_

* * *

 

Roxy sighs.

A drink would be nice. Something strong — with lots of olives if it's a martini, or extra dry if it isn't. Anything that'll dull her senses and cloud her brain, that will let her forget what day it is and how much it _sucks ass_. It also needs to burn going down. The more the better. She needs this pain to feel well deserved. She needs to know it isn't her own stupid self pity that is making her want to throw her fists into a wall until she bleeds. She needs to feel _vindicated_.

She is sprawled out on her bed, staring up at a blank ceiling. It also kind of sucks ass. Maybe she should draw something on it. But then, she's too lazy to get up. And anyway, she hates having to look at shit when she's feeling down. It means her mind will have to work more. She decides not to do anything to her ceiling, settling for a passive hate toward it.

It's really quiet in her room, too. With all the windows closed, it's warm, but not too warm. At least she can wallow in adequate temperatures. And even if it's a little stuffy, she doesn't want to open the window. It's too far away. She rolls her head up to look at the window.

Bad mistake.

The calendar is on the wall right next to her window. Dropping her head down, she groans loudly, the noise piercing her own ears after such quiet. Blindly, she grasps toward her nightstand for something small. She ends up with one of her many wine glasses in hand, still half filled with days-old moscato. It'll do, she thinks, and hurls it with all her might at the calendar. It misses, but the shattering sound of glass sounds miserable and she decides she likes it. Just like her. Stupid and old and smelly and miserable and _broken all over the goddamn ground_. And just like the glass, there's no one here that gives a shit about picking her up.

Does anyone even remember her birthday? She remembers. She's remembered everyday for the last 16 years of her life, even when she still drowned herself in margaritas and martinis. Sober, drunk, whatever; she still remembered. But her completely sober friends don't seem to. None of those assholes even drink! And yet, none of them seem to recall that today is the fourth day of December, the day Roxy Lalonde came into this stupid world and changed the course of whatever life they were supposed to have before she came into being. Would they still have met without her? Have made it into the game?

They seem to be doing well enough without her now, she notes bitterly. She snorts mentally, laughs mentally until her mental stomach mentally hurts. Roxy's too tired to really laugh right now. She's kinda tired of everything, to be honest. What a drag. She shouldn't have given up drinking. Why the fuck did she even do that? She was funnier that way. Maybe her friends would notice their court jester was missing instead of being stupid boyfriends or pining over stupid boys or hunting stupid treasure. How lame. She couldn't even _lmao_ sarcastically at that right now. She's too tired and it's too stupid to even deserve her sarcasm. She's better than it. Than _them_.

She considers rolling over again, but she doesn't feel like suffocating in her sheets. Yet, at least. The dull call of her video games call her, but then so does her rifle. They don't quite overpower the roaring of her refusal to get up, though, so she sighs again.

Roxy misses them. It hurts when she thinks that, some hollow pain in the back of her chest or something, but it doesn't make it any less true. They obviously don't miss her, anyway. Don't need her cockblockin' in their weird love-shit-triangle-storm they got going on there. She wonders where her phone is, but it's probably out of batteries by now, anyway. It's been about six days since she's set up camp in her room, and it died around the second day. If she didn't get messages those first few days, she sure as fuck ain't gonna have them now. Her phone isn't important right now.

Maybe she should sing "Happy Birthday" to herself. She opens her mouth, and a croak comes out. It's embarrassing. Coughing a few times to clear her throat, she begins to sing.

"Happy birthday to me... Shitty birthday to me!"

Her walls were soundproof, right? It never bothered her to remember, nor did it really come up. She sings a little louder. In fact, she starts screaming the lyrics, eventually.

"Happy birthday to stupid-Roxy-that-no-one-cares-about!!!!"

She inhales deeply here, because that all came out in one breath, and she had skillfully held that last note.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! TO!!!!!—"

"You."

Roxy sits up so fast it gives her a head rush. Her brain throbs worse than any hangover she's had and her vision goes so black that she falls off the side her her bed. Except she doesn't hit the floor. She hits air as two firm hands grab her shoulders and place her carefully back on her bed. Orange and blonde fills her vision, and she blinks rapidly, trying to clear her head.

"Holy shit; hallucinations coming to life and savin' my ass. That's new."

She can't see Dirk's eyes behind his shades, but his mouth twitches down into a frown.

"You mean friends climbin' in through your window because all your damn doors were locked and savin' your ass? Because that shit's pretty new, too." His tone is incredibly unimpressed, and she almost tells him to _fuck off because it's her birthday._ "I got glass lodged in my shoes because of that, too. These were new. Fresh outta the cobbler's womb kind of new. This is their first breath of life, Rox, and now that wondrous experience has been marred by a fucking shard of glass up their larynx."

Roxy frowns before replying. He'd appeared right as she was in the middle of her maudlin musical monologue. After almost an entire week of ignoring her. She shouldn't be happy to see him. Her blood boils, but her heart sings at the same time, and the only coherent reply that her tongue agrees with seems to be, "I'd wanna shove a piece 'a glass up _your_ larnyx. Lanryx. _Larynx_." Except, she doesn't really want to. Well, perhaps a little. Maybe up his ass would make her feel better. Haha. Glass up the ass... What was going on again?

"Wow," Dirk whistles. "This whole day-of-birth schtick not workin' out for you?"

Oh. Yeah. That asshole. Roxy decides to let her blood boil. He's ignored her and now he's here to insult her? Forget vindication from herself; _this guy's_ got the whole thing covered for her, check and all. It burns going through her throat, just like old scotch, and she doesn't care about the alcohol ban quite much anymore.

"Maybe it isn't," Roxy snaps, turning her nose up at him. "Maybe I forgot about it, just like e'rry other person here. I'm all up on this new trend, Distri: forgettin' Roxy Lalonde even fuckin' exists. Come here to tell me all about it? 'Cause I already know. Seems to be totes the hot thing now."

The amused quirk of his mouth quickly falls. He's frowning again. Almost scowling. Confused, maybe. Possibly angry, ready to shrug her off and leave. _He's_ the reason she's mad, anyway, so it isn't her fault. Her chest aches and burns, just like when she swallows her whiskey too fast, and she tries not to let the feeling get to her. It's a feeling that makes her eyes water, but, no; she's _angry_ and she's not supposed to _cry_. Roxy forces her eyes shut, tilting her head away from him in a false show of grandeur.

He doesn't reply right away. Maybe he's left, not that it would surprise Roxy. She can feel her eyes burn like they do right when she promises herself she won't cry but does it anyway. Squeezing her eyes shut tighter helps a bit.

Her bed dips down beside her. Dirk hasn't left, and somehow, it makes her stomach flip. Her teeth chatter from trying to hold back tears, and she clenches her jaw until it feels like her teeth will shatter. Her head is angled away from him and will hopefully stay that way because Roxy doesn't know how much longer the tears will keep.

"I came because my Roxy senses were tingling," he answers simply. It's lame and dorky and _lame_ , but it makes her cough out some weird cross between a gasp and a choke and a laugh, and a few rebellious tears tumble down her face. She covers her eyes with her arm, keeps her shaky breaths quiet. Laughs and sobs blend together, and she can't tell which is which, but she feels pathetic, in a self depreciatory way that makes her want to both laugh and cry — which she's already doing. Dirk's silence tells her he knows she's crying, and the sound of him opening his mouth, pausing, and closing it again doesn't help the whimper that escapes her mouth.

"They have been for a while," he continues, "but English got himself clumsily trapped in a dungeon and Jane accidentally set off a booby trap while playin' detective in the caves, so I've been forced to save the Dynamic Oldies Duo for a bit." He pauses, waiting for her to reply. When she doesn't, he adds a weak, "Jane's been baking birthday cakes since I fished her out and Jake's got this entire goddamn saga on his newest scar for you. The greatest moviewrites' would roll in their tourist trap graves from how much abuse the kid's doing to the common movie plot line. If you listen closely, James Cameron's corpse is hearing those butchered allusions to his work and wishin' his body wasn't too decayed to produce enough tears for him to drown in."

Roxy manages a weak, strangled chuckle, rubbing her eyes into her forearm, and Dirk sits up a little straighter beside her. It isn't a bad excuse, her mind reasons. Roxy's arm is feeling heavy against her face, anyway, and she remembers that she _did_ miss them. Him. Them... _Him_. Her stomach churns uncomfortably; Roxy regrets mentally threatening to shove glass up his ass.

_She misses them._

"How'd you even know I was here?" she asks quietly. "Could'a been trapped in a cave like Jakey this entire time, too."

Dirk doesn't respond, and Roxy can't help but wonder what kind of ridiculous story about ESP he might be weaving in his head. He remains that way — oddly quiet — for a while, and Roxy slowly grows tired of resting her arm over her eyes. Her neck's going to kill her for this awkward backward angle tomorrow. After a moment's consideration, she peels her arm away. It's sticky with tears, and she hesitantly peeps one eye open to look at Dirk. He has his shades off, looking at her with some intense, furrowed-brow-and-mini-frown kind of scrutiny, his tangerine eyes far away in thought; alarms immediately go off in Roxy's head — somewhere along the lines of _hooooooly fuck abort missoin abrot mission fuck fuckity fcuk-shit fuck!!!!!_ — and she rushes to cover her face with her arm again.

A hand stops her, though — Dirk's hand — and her eyes are hopelessly drawn to his. He's somewhere between stern disapproval and amused concern; two very different ends of the spectrum that make Roxy unsure of whether she wants to cease or resist. _God_ , his stupid eyes are so hard to look away from.

"Don't do that," he commands, stern in that moment, and just as quickly switching to mock-begrudgingly exasperated in the next. It's an air she knows well, the one they're always directing at each other with sarcastic quips and extended metaphors, and Roxy abides, just for this one moment. He takes the moment to chew at his lip, rolling words around in his mouth with near tangible hesitance.

"At least you came," she offers plainly just as he blurts out, "If I were a compass." Dirk cringes as Roxy shoots him her patented _wtf_ look, and he quickly composes himself, resolutely meeting her gaze as he speaks again.

"Look, Rox." He inhales deeply. "Let's just say, if I were a compass," he repeats, and Roxy suppresses the urge to reestablish her signature expression. "You... You'd be north."

Roxy blinks. Once, twice. Opens her mouth to reply, says nothing. She blinks again. Presses her lips together and stares blankly at some point behind him. _Shit,_ son. _Shit_. Dirk shifts uncomfortably, her eyes fly back up to his, and the world snaps back into motion as she snorts, rather unattractively, and doubles over in giggles right before him. Dirk lets her laugh, and boy, does she physically laugh until her physical stomach physically hurts.

She feels lighter, she feels energized; when Dirk tells her, "Happy birthday," amidst her raucous giggling, she feels vindicated and she lets her heart _sing_.


	23. because we're at war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her stare is bright, and her eyes are like a budding sunrise. Neither one blinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set within the universe of Fire Emblem: Awakening, a video game I may or may not be enamored with. No background is really necessary, but knowing it is fun.
> 
> Ylisse and Plegia are two countries at war (Ylisse being a more flat and foresty land, Plegia being a desert) and the Shepherds are a group of soldiers that fight for Ylisse. There's this dumb character with a mask named Gerome, so that's where Dirk gets his mask.

They sit together at the wooden tables, surrounded by people just like them. A little lost, but they know where they're going, what war they're fighting. The chatter of these sheep known as Shepherds is a pleasant cacophony. She feels it fill up the hollow of her soul like no other sound she knows. He sits across from her, making no noise at all, but he's still so _loud_. 

He eats his food silently, methodically. It's roots and greens and shreds of some meat in an almost-but-not-quite bland broth. War does that to food sometimes. He seems content with it, staring both at it and so far away from it at the same time. It's hard to tell with the mask. 

Unlike him, she doesn't eat her soup. Her fingers stir the spoon idly around, dull scraping the only sign of her presence. Dull scraping and her brilliant roseate eyes on him. Her stare is bright, and her eyes are like a budding sunrise. Neither one blinks. 

"You should eat," he states suddenly. The " _we're at war and you need the energy_ " is unspoken. She hears it anyway. It's never unspoken with her. It's always _implied_. 

"I will," she reassures, a little petulantly. It'd be dumb to waste food now of all times, and she's not dumb. A small bite, and she frowns at the lack of taste. It tastes like never ending Ylissean plains. She marches across those almost daily. 

With a soft clink, she puts her spoon down again. He pretends not to notice, taking up his bread and picking at it. His eyes are ones she can always feel when they're directed at her. Even through his dumb mask. She stares long and hard and tries to remember the last time she saw his face. His eyes looked like a burning sunset. Both eventually succumbed to the dark. 

"Eat," he insists again, line of vision never leaving the bread in his palms. She doesn't eat. Stares a little. Traces the old scars and callouses and lines on his exposed hands. She waits until he stops playing with his food and begins eating it. 

"Let's get married," she blurts. He chokes. She regrets not waiting for him to finish chewing before having spoken, but he coughs and she laughs, and for a moment, they are the cacophony that she holds so close to her soul. 

"What?" he croaks weakly, and she laughs softly in reply. She repeats herself, slowly and surely. The " _we're at war and you never know when we might die_ " is unspoken, but still implied. She doesn't need to say everything because he already knows. 

The look he gives her is sad, maybe— she can't tell with his obstructive mask on, but she has known him for so long by the curve of his mouth— and the smile she gives him tries to be happier. 

"I was joking," she tells him lightly. "Well, maybe. I just wanted to say something outrageous before one of us croaked on the battlefield. I couldn't have gone on with life knowing I never tried to hold onto something important. And you're important." 

He stares at her. She can remember tangerine eyes — every detail and every lash — but she never tells him because then he'd never show his face. This time, she tears her eyes away and picks up her spoon. Eating is a droll affair, like marching in the autumn Plegian deserts. But she's at war. She needs her energy. 

"Finish your food, okay?" he asks suddenly. Her spoon stops halfway to her mouth and she looks up. His face is turned away and his lips are set in a deep scowl, but she hides a smile at the faint pink of his cheeks and lifts the spoon to her lips. 

"So it's a yes?" she quips cheekily. The brilliance of her grin matches the brilliance of her eyes. He throws a napkin at her. 

"Shut up, Roxy." 

"You too, Dirk." 

The " _I love you_ " is implied. 


	24. with/without you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He holds her like a lifeline, like she does to him.
> 
> [ established relationship, no SBURB AU ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looks pointedly at ro and shelly (you _know_ this is all your faults don't lie to me)

"Every time I see her," the blonde girl sighs, "it's always, 'Roxanne, have you graduated early yet? Have a well-paying career yet? Why aren't you marrying a rich doctor? Why did you choose Computer Sciences? Video Game Programming? You should have been a novelist, a doctor, a prodigy, _better_.'" The last word comes out in a strangled sob, and Roxy's teeth clench so hard they might shatter, her roseate eyes shine with bitter tears she won't let fall and _goddamn_ ; she looks so delicate, a thin glass instead of a blade, and Dirk places a hand on her shoulder carefully. He contemplates his words before he speaks, and when he does, he doesn't know how much time has passed, but she listens nonetheless. 

"I don't know about you," he begins, "but I'm pretty sure the phrase goes: if it ain't broke, don't fix it. " She laughs softly at his exaggerated accent and he can feel her coming back from glass beside him, feel her presence becoming a bit more solid and a bit more sure as he presses on. 

"And your life? Shit son, you've got it made! Double fuckin' major in two subjects you genuinely _give_ flyin' shits about, and at a prestigious as hell university? Did someone say Roxy Asskicker Lalonde, because that's all I'm hearin' here. I mean, look at me; all I've got is a room full of metal carcasses and not enough 'interpersonal skills' to land me a good enough scholarship. It's pretty sad. Granted, there's my irresistible good looks and avant garde mixing skills to counteract those," he trails off, putting on a mock-contemplative face, "but I digress, since we were talking about you, Rolal." 

Roxy giggles again, a small chuckle that quickly turns into a full-on laugh; the flip of his stomach makes being offended hard to come by, so he just drops himself beside her and squishes her into the side arm cushion. 

As her laughter quietly fades, he watches her fondly. A serene smile pulls up at her lips and it makes him feel accomplished; he made a pretty (and brilliant and multidimensional and _genuine_ ) girl laugh when she had to wake up to the shitstorm that is her pushy mother. Roxy's eyes trail up to meet his, tracing what Dirk could tell was the lines and angles of his sunglasses, before boring past the lenses and into his eyes. 

She leans into him, short hair tickling his neck; the scent of her bubblegum shampoo mixes with that of his detergent on _his_ shirt that _she's_ wearing, and it sends his head into a heart racing tizzy. Her hands are gentle in removing his shades, setting them atop his head and leaving her fingers to card through his hair. Dirk keeps his eyes closed for a moment, only cracking them open when she shifts into his lap and pulls him into a hug. 

Her nose rubs against his bare shoulder, sending pleasant tingles through both of them, and he envelops her in his arms, not closing his eyes when she pulls back to gaze into them. Roseate eyes shine with intrigue as she stares _into_ him, making him feel even more naked than he is in his boxers; the least he can do is not move when she traces the skin beneath his eyes, only fiddling absently with the hem of her shirt and skimming his fingers faintly against the skin beneath it. She gasps softly at the gesture, and her fingers stop by his ears to guide his mouth to hers. 

The kiss is softer this time, and while Roxy doesn't thank him in words, she instills gratitude into her hands through his hair and traces her thanks along his lips with hers ( _thanks for reminding me it's not just me against the world_ ); he replies likewise ( _thanks for proving to me I could still be found in the world_ ) and holds her like a lifeline, like she does to him. 

When they're breathless and dizzy, they pull apart until only their foreheads lean together. She stares at his tangerine eyes with a burning wonder like he's never seen before. 

"You know she can't define you," he blurts at the same time as she whispers, "You know you don't have to hide your eyes," and they both flush redder, laugh weakly, untangle themselves awkwardly. 

"I heard you guys this morning," he murmurs, playing with the strands of her hair that barely brush her creamy shoulder. "The shattering plate woke me up, and while I admit to still bein' in a half zombified state, I could hear the two of you just yelling and screamin' like this was your comeback concert and all the mics had gone to shit. I should've come out and done something, but I had this feelin' that my half-dressed presence would've made things worse." Dirk pauses, pulling her into a languid side hug and resting his forehead on her shoulder. "It couldn't have been worse though, could it?" he finishes quietly. She doesn't answer, instead staring at the wall across from them. He frowns, tracing the ring of still raw pink that circles Roxy's wrist. He presses his lips tenderly against it, silently promising that he won't let anything like that happen to her again. 

She looks over at the gesture, a melancholy smile on her lips. "Nah," she sighs eventually. "It was bad, but it always is. Normally, I'd be fucking sobbin' or half drowned in a malt an' whiskey or somethin' dumb by now." Roxy shifts carefully, turns so she can hug him properly and bury her face in his neck. "But you make everything better, Di. Dunno where I'd be without you, really," she laughs ruefully, and her voice is half chokes with tears. She sniffles and rapidly blinks away a stinging wetness in her eyes. 

"I don't even want to _think_ about where I'd be without you," Dirk snorts, rubbing comforting circles into her back. She giggles again, a thankfully lighter sound, and the warm breath on his skin leaves a wave of tingles that never quite dissipates. He tightens his arms around her and thinks to himself: he'd rewrite the dictionary if only to make sure there's no such thing as letting go. 


End file.
